


Waiting Shadows

by Kaz_Langston



Series: Steel & Shadows [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has PTSD, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slave Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29657640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Recovery.Resilience.Revenge.Leaving Kaer Morhen after four months of recovery with the witchers is an imposing step for Jaskier, still traumatised by slavery. It was easy to say he’d follow Geralt when they were in the safety of Kaer Morhen, but as they travel the path old memories and living nightmares plague his steps.You’ll need to read A Fox Treads Silently first.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Witchers
Series: Steel & Shadows [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014918
Comments: 25
Kudos: 123





	1. Separation

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be approximately weekly.
> 
>  **Recap of[A Fox Treads Silently](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239168):**  
> Jaskier was a slave, magically silenced, who was given to Geralt (reluctantly) as payment and brought to Kaer Morhen. The witchers got rid of his collar, which gave him back his ability to speak, and helped him start to recover. He remembers his time as a slave, but it’s fuzzy and unclear. He persuaded Geralt to give him four months to travel together to see if it would work out.
> 
>  **Content warnings / tag explanations:**  
>  Consent - Some instances of drunken sex (Geralt / Jaskier), consent is given but Jaskier is inconsistent with what he wants.  
> Past rape / non con - referred to but not described in detail.  
> Asexuality (situational asexuality? Low sex drive? idk) - Not tagged but included here just in case. Jaskier’s relationship with his sexuality is understandably complex, and inconsistent. He generally enjoys sex, but very much on his terms, and not often. Boundaries are NOT pushed, but he is occasionally frustrated with his own limits.  
> PTSD - for Jaskier, related to his time in slavery; seen as hypervigilance, flashbacks, dissociation, sleeping problems, some emotional outbursts.
> 
> If you need more details, please ask me <3

The first day after leaving Kaer Morhen passed quietly, the witchers taking their usual pace until Geralt called a halt for a late lunch. Lambert opened his mouth to comment — they’d usually keep walking until nightfall — but Eskel’s sharp elbow silenced him, and his scowl of protest faded when Eskel’s eyes flicked pointedly over to Jaskier, whose long limbs trembled beneath warm woolen breeches, his hands nervous at his sides in their fur lined gloves.

Suddenly guilty that he’d been striding along with little regard for the other man, Lambert settled himself on a rock and brushed off the space next to him, his horse nudging at his shoulder.

“Here, Jaskier, sit with me. I’m better company than Geralt.”

With a sigh of thanks, Jaskier flopped down on the rock. “I can’t believe I made it down here in mid-winter snow, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Running away from a castle filled with big scary witchers probably seemed a good idea at the time.”

“Scary? You lot? I’ve seen fiercer puppies.” Still, Jaskier offered him a grateful smile as he rummaged in his pack for food.

It wasn’t long before they were refuelled and ready again, Geralt and Roach taking up the rear with Jaskier in front of them, sharp eyes watching for signs of fatigue in the cut of his shoulders and the rise of his foot.

Buoyed by the food, and by the sunshine breaking through the clouds to glint off the last few streaks of snow on the mountainsides, Jaskier’s fingers began to tap a little against his leg, and Geralt had to bite back a smile. Irrepressible, his bard. 

Soon after came the humming, a bouncy little thing in time with their steps as they crunched through slush.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly, the few sounds of nature waking after a long winter drowned out by idle chatter and Jaskier’s cheerful rhythms, but as the night started to draw in the snatches of words settled into humming and then into trudging silence. It was Vesemir who called the halt, declaring the next wide point in the path the perfect place to rest for the night.

Eskel cleared the floor of stones as Vesemir and Jaskier settled the horses, Geralt fetching firewood and laying a fire, helped along with a hefty blast of igni to light the damp wood; Lambert crept into the bushes and returned triumphantly with three winter-thin rabbits, skinned and ready for the pot, and threw in a few of the last winter vegetables brought from Kaer Morhen.

When it came time to retire, Geralt paused at the sight of the bedrolls. Jaskier’s was laid a good foot away from his own, the man already tucked under his furs with his back turned to the fire. Without commenting he settled in his own bed, and some of the tension faded from Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Goodnight,” someone said, and it echoed round the camp, Jaskier raising his head to speak but not making eye contact with Geralt. He burrowed back under the blankets, seemingly content to lie apart.

They hadn’t spent every night in the keep in the same bed — certainly not before the collar had been removed, and even after Jaskier’s mind became his own and they began to lie together the bard had often retreated to sleep alone — and Geralt was used to being alone on the path, but it seemed he had become accustomed to a slim body beside him. Sleep proved elusive enough that he forced himself to meditate, eventually drifting off into unconsciousness long after the moon had set.

There was no morning kiss, either, though Geralt rose before Jaskier had the chance to poke his tousled head from the blanket. The bard was last to stir, after Eskel caught at his shoulder, awakening with a start and a wave of sour fear-scent that had the witchers frozen, all heads snapping up to stare at him.

“Sorry,” Jaskier muttered, shoving the bedding away and rubbing at his eyes where heavy bags gathered. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Without comment Vesemir broke the tableau, standing to pass him the last of the porridge, and the camp disassembled quickly around the yawning lad. 

Later that day they passed the short cliff where, many weeks and a lifetime ago, Jaskier’s misguided attempt at fleeing the keep had so nearly ended in tragedy. Face dubious, he peered over the edge, Geralt hovering close enough to grab him if needed. “All the way down there?”

He shuffled back and Geralt relaxed enough to point out a scattering of rocks. “Edge gave way.”

“Huh. I don’t remember.” He frowned. “It’s all a bit of a blur. Just... snow. And fear.”

There was a long silence.

“Hauled you back up too,” Lambert eventually remarked, a little too loud. “Glad we hadn’t fed you too much by that point.”

Jaskier snorted and shoved at him ineffectively, the moment broken. “Good thing it wasn’t you down there, then.” 

Wolf eyes sparked with mischief. “I wonder if we fed you too much this winter,” Lambert grinned, slinking forward, pack and reins dropping from his grip as his fingers wriggled threateningly.

“Lambert,” Jaskier warned, laughter bubbling in his voice even as he held up his hands to fend off the witcher, placing his leather-wrapped lute neatly on the ground before making an ineffective attempt at escape. The others watched, amused, though Geralt’s jaw clenched a little as the two roughhoused. 

Once Jaskier was slung over Lambert’s shoulder, legs kicking as he squealed at the witcher’s hand pinching his bottom, Vesemir scolded the pair of them. “Put him down, you don’t know where he’s been.”

“Oh I know exactly where he’s been,” Lambert leered at Geralt, whose unamused face didn’t soften, but obligingly returned Jaskier to his feet, ruffled and pink.

“Brute,” Jaskier informed him tartly, lips still twitching as he stalked away.

The others followed, Roach breaking into a trot as Geralt outpaced his brothers to catch up with Jaskier, who offered him a shy smile as they walked in silence.

That night Jaskier placed their bedrolls side by side, not as close as Geralt would have liked but not the unfamiliar distance of their first night on the path. The bard lay still as he slept, not curling closer even as the light of morning woke him.

Geralt tried not to take it personally.

It took four full days before the path from Kaer Morhen levelled off. The landscape was still rocky and bleak, the melting snow spread in great swathes across the mountainsides, but the signs of spring were there in the green glimpses of the valley beyond and in the animals stirring from their hibernation, more than one of which had ended up in their stewpot.

Leaving his brothers and Vesemir at the crossroads was the pang of sorrow it always was. Geralt sent a quick prayer to whichever gods might be listening that he would see them all unharmed next autumn, to give them the strength to triumph over monsters and the cruelty of men.

The scent of his family lingered long after they had parted, traces of their sweat and blood worn into the seams of his clothing, into the leather of his gloves. They would fade within a few days, but he would forever be able to pick them out of a crowd.

The two of them walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Jaskier dropped back a little, giving Geralt his space, though his footsteps were steady and even behind him.

Finally shaking off his malaise Geralt turned with a half smile to drag Jaskier up beside him, but when he turned to face the bard he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Jaskier’s face was wet with tears, twin tracks down exertion flushed cheeks, eyes red rimmed, his lips turned down and pinched tightly shut.

“Jaskier!”

“Sorry,” he said miserably, “Sorry, sorry.”

Geralt dropped Roach’s reins in an instant, but pulled up short as Jaskier dashed away the tears with an already-damp sleeve and ducked his head, shoulders curled to shrink his frame in a way he hadn’t done in weeks. “Hug?”

Jaskier let out a wet laugh and nodded, and Geralt bundled him up in his arms, the first time he’d been permitted to embrace the bard since their last night in Kaer Morhen, a wide hand splayed across the back of his head to draw him closer still.

The scent of his hair was familiar, even overlaid as it was with salt-sadness and fresh sweat, and Geralt inhaled deeply before speaking.

“What’s wrong?”

Jaskier made a thin sound and shook his head, and Geralt held him closer until the trembling had subsided and his breaths were steady. He shifted just enough for his low tone to reach Jaskier’s ear. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” came the hoarse voice, and then, after a woeful sniff, “I’m being ridiculous.”

Arms wrapped solidly around Jaskier, Geralt was content to stand and wait.

“I’m just really, really going to miss them.”

Oh.

“We can turn back, you can go with them if you want.” Years of dealing with humanity’s ire kept his face implacable.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt let him go, but he didn’t step out of reach, anxious reddened eyes scanning Geralt’s fixed expression. “I want to go with you, it’s just... Six years, Geralt. Six _years_.” He swallowed hard. “The four of you are the only people in all that time that I’ve trusted. And now I won’t see them until winter again, and that feels like a lifetime.”

Something in Geralt’s belly that had tightened unhappily softened. _You’ll see them again_ seemed trite, when there was no guarantee. _I feel the same way, every year,_ would be the truth of it, but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t admit to the gut wrenching fear of loss that had clawed at him every spring since the keep had been sacked and left him with just an ever-diminishing handful of brothers. Instead he caught at Jaskier’s hand, lifting it to press a kiss to the bare knuckles, and ran his thumb over the unsubtle ridges.

“You have a continent to see. And I’ll be by your side.”

The damp grin Jaskier offered told him it was the right thing to say, and they set off again, Jaskier still wiping at his eyes occasionally with the back of his free hand, the other tightly twined around Geralt’s own.

*-*-*-*-*

The three witchers watched Jaskier and Geralt take the south path, standing in silence for long minutes until the pair made a final turn and dropped out of even witcher eyesight. Eskel coughed quietly, and Lambert screwed a foot into the thaw-damp dirt, but it was Vesemir who finally spoke, his words falling into the silence.

“Three weeks to Lettenhove. Time to change your mind.”

“I won’t change mine,” Eskel said grimly.

“Nor I,” said Lambert.

“He is monstrous but he is no monster. It will be murder. Cold blooded.” His voice was low and steady.

Lambert jutted out his chin, standing tall, taking advantage of the scant inch he had over Vesemir. “The colder the better.”

The heavy gaze flicked from Lambert to Eskel. “Eskel?”

“I’ve done worse to nicer men.”

Vesemir nodded, sharp and decisive. “Mount up, witchers. We ride to Lettenhove.”

*-*-*-*-*

The camp that night was lonely, just the two of them, Roach and the fire. Jaskier strummed absently at his lute, gaze distant, and they didn’t speak. Quiet sounds, animals scurrying through undergrowth, or the wind in the trees, seemed to catch Jaskier’s notice as much as they did Geralt’s, lifting his head with every sound. Each time he would stare into the shadows, pass his gaze across Geralt’s unmoving frame, and then back down at the ground.

It was almost a relief when Jaskier declared he was tired, settling the lute with care into the makeshift case and stripping off his doublet to settle into his bedroll, which was once again separated by far more distance than the witcher would have liked.

Geralt stayed up late, watching the flames. Had he made the right choice, letting Jaskier travel with him? It didn’t feel like it. Between long silences, tears, and the distance that had somehow crept in between them, it seemed like Jaskier was regretting it. And the bard hadn’t even seen him in full witcher form, hadn’t seen him black eyed and chalk skinned and bloody. 

The twig he’d been fiddling with snapped in two, and with a sigh he tossed both pieces in the fire to be consumed by the embers.

Beside him, tucked under the bedroll, Jaskier’s feet twitched, and Geralt stilled until the bard had settled again.

Unfastening his own jacket, he laid it neatly over his pack. A final check that Roach was securely fastened to a tree, and that he had suitable weaponry within reach — the steel sword, plus a dagger in each boot — and he retired to his bedroll.

Before he could settle into sleep, or into meditation when sleep was inevitably elusive, there was a sound from Jaskier’s bedroll, the faintest hum of vocal cords. 

After a few seconds it came again, a low groan devolving into yipping, yelping cries. When he sat up, pushing back the fur, the faint glow of the firelight flickered over Jaskier’s face, twisted and tight. A normal reaction to a nightmare? Or some remnant of the damned speech spell that had taken his voice? He’d not heard those sounds in their nights together at Kaer Morhen, but perhaps sleeping on the road had triggered unhappy memories.

“Jaskier,” he called in a low voice, not wanting to startle the bard. It didn’t wake him; if anything the awful sound worsened.

Clambering to his knees, the cold night air sending the hairs on his forearms prickling, he half-crawled to the bard’s side, reaching out a tentative hand to touch his shoulder.

Jaskier awoke with a shout, jerking away from Geralt’s grip, eyes wide and terrified as he tangled in the blanket.

When Jaskier’s bright gaze finally settled on Geralt’s hands where they were held up in surrender, he was panting hard, and Geralt could hear his heart racing. 

“Fuck,” he said emphatically, and covered his face with his hands, tense body going limp. “I was... I was back with Ike.”

Ike, of three years of slavery, Jaskier’s penultimate owner. Ike of bad card playing, of paying a mage to weave a spell of silence and embed it in a cruel steel collar. Ike of _find another use_ for an enslaved boy whose music he found irritating.

“Fuck,” Geralt agreed, and beneath his hands the corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah.” 

After a long moment he wiped his eyes and tugged the blanket back up around his chest, curling on his side to stare at the fire. There was silence as Jaskier’s heart slowly settled into a regular pattern, still too fast but not as though it was about to burst from his chest, and Geralt sat back on his heels. “Think you can sleep?”

“Can I have some water?” He sounded more uncertain than Geralt had heard him in weeks, and it hurt the witcher’s heart to hear it.

Handing over the waterskin Jaskier drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, though he still didn’t make eye contact. “Thanks.”

“Jaskier...”

“Goodnight, Geralt.” 

He squirmed determinedly in his bedroll, buried up to his nose in the blanket, and by all appearances went to sleep. To a witcher, his forced slow breathing and still-quickened heart were a giveaway, but Geralt didn’t call him on it, instead settling back on his own bedroll, staring up at the clawed branches twisting above them.

*-*-*-*-*

Geralt woke early, the dew on his bedroll catching the dawn light, but Jaskier had apparently woken earlier, judging by the light breaths from the neighbouring bedroll.

“Morning,” he groused.

Jaskier flinched before responding, his voice forcedly level. “Morning, Geralt.”

They rose at the same time, stretching in silence, and Geralt could feel the weight of the lad’s gaze as they folded away the bedrolls. 

“Stream down that way if you want to wash. Snow melt, it’ll be cold.”

Jaskier swallowed, and Geralt could hear his throat click, though he couldn’t see the expression on the bard’s face, deliberately occupying himself with feeding Roach.

“Of course. Yes. Back in a minute.”

He stumbled away, first in one direction to pee and then back to the deep stream, and Geralt listened carefully for the sounds of him bathing in too-cold water—a familiar gasp, and a faint grind as he clenched his teeth and strode in anyway.

With a frown, Geralt rummaged in one of the packs, drawing out soap, a washcloth and a thin towel before heading towards the stream.

Breaking through the trees, he found Jaskier in the water up to his chest, skin blue-white under the rushing water as he scrubbed vigorously at his arms. He had to be kneeling and was surely half frozen.

“Jaskier,” he called, concerned, “What are you doing?”

The bard stood, pale skin prickling as it met the cool morning air. “Washing?” The water was still up to his hips, quick and clear with snow melt. 

“Soap,” Geralt said slowly, holding out his offering. “And a washcloth.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Jaskier looked surprised. 

After a long moment where Jaskier didn’t come any closer, Geralt added, “Why are you in the water?”

“You said wash.” He shrugged, sending a cascade of water down his bare chest, trickling through the dark hairs, watching Geralt’s face closely.

“I didn’t say get in the damn river!”

Jaskier blinked at him. “I’m... sorry? I thought you...”

“A quick wash. Not freeze your balls off.”

“Oh.” When he finally moved, it was slow, and his eyes were wary. He didn’t leave the water, standing naked and uncovered in the shallows as ice cold water buffeted the dark hairs around his calves.

Geralt put down the towel and washcloth on the stony bank, the soap piled on top, and stepped back. “I’ll get breakfast ready.”

He could feel Jaskier’s gaze as he left, watching him through the trees. 

The lad was quick to return after that, towel-damp hair dripping down the back of his shirt, though he stared at the fire rather than looking at Geralt.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier ventured, after a long moment of silence.

Sighing, Geralt stirred at the porridge, serving half of it up into a bowl. “Come here.”

He could hear Jaskier’s heart pounding, but the bard crept closer all the same, and the bravery made his chest ache. Reaching out, he caught at a pale, chilled hand, pulling Jaskier down beside him, and pressed the bowl into the bard’s hand. “Eat.”

Tentatively Jaskier spooned up the thick porridge, swapping hands as the heat soaked through the bowl to burn his fingertips. After a moment, Geralt lifted an arm and draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him close enough to press a kiss to his still-damp hair.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, and Jaskier fumbled at the bowl, looking up with wide blue eyes.

“For what?”

“I... had forgotten that it’s been a long time since you travelled freely. That your experience of travelling was... crueller than mine, in many ways.”

Jaskier’s mouth dipped into a miserable grimace, and he looked down at the oats. “We’ve both had a fairly shit deal, I think.”

Geralt snorted, and squeezed him tightly before letting go and returning to his own food. “I won’t argue with that, bard.”

They ate in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder.

“I’ll come and wash the dishes with you,” Jaskier offered. “I’m still not sure Roach won’t try and bite me if I try to tack her up when you’re not here.”

The horse in question eyed him balefully across the clearing, swishing her tail. “Perhaps that’s wise,” Geralt agreed.

As Jaskier cleaned the bowls, Geralt knelt at the riverside and scrubbed himself quickly with the washcloth and soap, the way any reasonable man would wash in icy water. He barely took longer than the bard did with the dishes, and Jaskier waited obligingly for him to finish and dress before heading back to camp.

“Are we far from town?”

“Another day, maybe two. Sometimes the snow melt can make it tricky, but I think we’re early enough.”

They’d been on the road for ten minutes before Jaskier spoke again. “Is this... the same place we came through on the way up? White-something?”

“Whiteriver Falls. No. The others should pass through there. We’ll see Glean Carraigh first. It’s bigger, and should have word on a contract already if we’re lucky. Then Ard Carraigh a few days after that unless the path leads us elsewhere.”

“And it often does that? The path mapping itself at your feet?”

He gave Jaskier an amused glance. “If you have to put it like that.”


	2. Rusalka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning - mentioned / referred to [sexual] assault, mentioned vomiting.

Glean Carraigh was busy, people taking advantage of a glorious spring day to chat and shop and just relax in the sunshine. All of those activities ceased as Geralt approached, an unsettled silence drifting through the crowd, mothers pulling children from their path and watching with wide eyes.

Geralt paid it no mind, far too used to the treatment, but Jaskier walked with a hand on Roach’s shoulder, face pale. “It’s always like this?”

“No.” They reached the noticeboard, scattered with papers. A handful announced births, a half dozen deaths, and then one final sheet with an alderman’s sigil on the corner. A monster in the lake, two men drowned and another near-dead, sightings of a beautiful woman. A hundred and fifty crowns, well worth it for a rusalka. He ripped the paper from the board. “Sometimes they ignore me. Sometimes they stone me.” 

Jaskier gaped. “And you— you’ll kill their beast, all the same?”

“It’s coin. Doesn’t matter what they think of me.”

“Well that— that’s— that’s bullshit.”

Bullshit it might be, but that was a witcher’s lot in life. He didn’t bother answering, instead just leading Roach towards an inn that looked cheap enough for his purse, still light despite what Eskel had slipped him before they left.

“We’ll stay here.”

“Wait, no, we’re having this conversation, Geralt.”

Jaskier planted himself in Geralt’s path, forcing the witcher to come to a halt with an exasperated sigh. There were two spots of colour high on the bard’s cheeks. “I knew you were underappreciated, but _stoning_?”

“They don’t appreciate having the Butcher of Blaviken inflicted on their town. Very few do.”

“But you’re... a hero. Slayer of monsters, saver of women— and bards, I might add!”

“Not to them.”

Jaskier wilted a little, enough for Geralt to nudge him aside and continue on his way. “That’s bullshit.”

“So you’ve said.”

Fifteen years was little enough time in the memory of men, not for such an awful tale as that of the slaughter he’d committed in Blaviken. He could hardly blame them for their fear. That Jaskier, brave, silly, peculiar man that he was, somehow managed to be the exception despite his hard lot in life, was something he still couldn’t quite understand.

Roach was happy to be tied up outside, sighing and sticking her nose in the water trough.

Inside he was met with the same silence, the same suspicion as in the street, though such a grubby tavern had to have seen its fair share of unseemly characters. Jaskier lingered, silently fuming, in the background.

“A room. One night.”

The inkeep eyed him carefully, though he didn’t put down the tankard he was cleaning or reach for the cudgel stowed neatly beneath the bar. “Two beds?”

Oh.

Geralt paused.

“One,” Jaskier cut in smoothly, and Geralt managed to contain his surprise. “One is fine.”

That earned the bard a sneer, and a dismissive head to toe glance. “Fifteen crowns.”

Fucking robbery. “Ten. And my horse stays.”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen, with supper.”

“Done. Upstairs, second left.”

He handed over the coin and took the key, the innkeep sliding it across the bar rather than risking making contact.

A flood of conversation followed them up the stairs, and it was a relief when Geralt could close the door behind them.

Jaskier slumped on the bed, and Geralt was horrified to see that his hands were shaking. Shoving down a churning gut, he leaned against the door as Jaskier shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t think I can do this,” the bard said faintly, his earlier outrage fizzled to nothing.

They’ll turn for Oxenfurt tomorrow. Take him somewhere he belongs. Not riding in the wake of a mutant.

“I told you they wouldn’t look kindly on you for running with a witcher.”

“Not—not that.” Jaskier huffed out a wet breath, not lifting his head. “Not you. Just... going into taverns, like it’s nothing. Like I haven’t been in a hundred others just like them, and made to kneel on the floor and beg for scraps like a dog.”

The saddlebags hit the floor, only the one with his potions seeing any gentleness.

“Fuck. Jaskier, I didn’t... We can camp.” He’d normally sleep on the road anyway, taverns a luxury for the coldest or wettest nights, or those when he was too injured to handle setting up camp. He’d thought a bed might be nicer, might give Jaskier a chance to lose some of the tension that had thrummed under the lad’s skin since they’d left Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier wiped at his eyes, growling a little in frustration at his own overflowing emotions before looking up, blue eyes bright above the dark bags left by restless nights. “The taverns are better than the road. It’s just the— smell, and the sounds. The fucking relentless fucking _talk_.”

Settling at the other end of the bed, Geralt tentatively slid a hand across the rough sheets, and Jaskier seized on it gratefully. His palm was wet with tears.

“They’ll get over it in a day.” Suspicion faded to wariness quickly, particularly once they saw he was only here for a contract and not likely to stay long enough to pollute the place. Or commit mass murder.

“I fucking won’t,” Jaskier spat out.

The frantic energy seemed to drain out of him as his anger had done before, melted away into nothing in an instant, and he slipped sideways with a groan until he was lying awkwardly on the bed, twisted around to keep his fingers twined with Geralt’s. 

There was a long silence, broken only by quick, hitching breaths, and when he next spoke his voice was thin. “Will I feel like this forever?”

“No.”

Anguished eyes turned to him. “How do you know?”

Geralt shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever.”

Jaskier snorted, a surprisingly inelegant noise from a man who had begun to return so determinedly to at least some of the manners he’d been raised with. “Oddly, that does make me feel better.” He let go of Geralt’s hand to wipe over his tear streaked face again, though his expression still drifted towards misery, and rolled onto his back, taking a great grounding breath and blowing it out slowly. “What’s next, then?”

“With the hunt?”

“Or supper. You’ve honestly not told me much of your plan, witcher.”

He seemed determined to ignore the occasional fresh tear that rolled down his cheek as he spoke, so Geralt did the same.

“I’ll investigate their lake monster. Kill it today or wait for morning. Supper, breakfast, move on.”

“The lake first, then? While we still have light.”

“Yes. You can stay here, or amuse yourself.”

“I’m not coming with you?” Jaskier looked wounded.

“It’s dangerous.”

He sat up, clearly readying himself for a fight, though his face was still blotchy from tears. “We agreed, I can look after myself.”

“It’s _dangerous_ , bard.” He wouldn’t risk him. Part fae or no, Jaskier was still mostly human, with weak human flesh that would tear and spill blood, a heart that could be stopped with poison or magic, bones that would snap or crumble beneath a cruel grip.

Jaskier snarled at him, rolling over to face the wall, face mulish.

Sighing, Geralt stood. “Be careful. That’s all I ask.”

He didn’t get a response, and didn’t expect one. Swords and potions in hand, he left the lad on the bed, closing the door quietly.

There hadn’t been this much drama in Kaer Morhen. There had been tears, yes, but only when truly provoked, and anger had been a rare sight. Certainly there hadn’t been such fury, or such despair, over small things. Perhaps this was more human. Melitele knew he’d been on the receiving end of humans’ ire often enough.

Outside, Roach whuffed wet lips over his chest. “Hm. Thanks, Roach.” She tossed her head, unimpressed.

The scent of water led them out of the town and down a well worn track, finally opening out up ahead of them into a wide, rocky shore around a lake. The wind coming off the water was cold, despite the glorious spring afternoon, catching his hair and tugging it awry until he redid the half tail with a quick tie.

Dismounting, he drew his sword. He'd be unlikely to need any of his potions to fight a near-mindless rusalka, but a handful went into different pouches all the same. No witcher was ever killed by over-preparedness.

Birdsong slowly returned to the woods around the lake, the creatures getting used to having a witcher prowling in their midst, and Geralt settled himself in for a wait. Sometimes a rusalka would show herself, sometimes he would need to take a swim to tempt her; better to wait a little while and face her on dry land if possible.

He'd not been there twenty minutes, settled into something still and silent that was too alert to be called meditation, when a sound caught his attention. Not from the water, but from the woods behind him.

Rising to his feet, sword ready, he turned to search the treeline, nostrils flaring to catch any scent.

Nothing. The birds still sang.

And then his gaze was caught by a glimmer of pale skin, half hidden by a tree.

With a growl he strode forward, and the face vanished. "Jaskier," he snarled into the waiting woods, "I told you to stay away!"

The bard stepped out, shamefaced but chin jutting out defiantly. "I just want to watch! I'll stay out of the way, you'll hardly know I'm here."

“I should never have let you travel with me,” Geralt snarled, regretting it an instant as Jaskier’s face fell. “I—"

From behind him, from the lake, something almost beyond his hearing caught his attention, and he whirled to see a woman standing at the edge of the water, fair haired and beautiful and entirely naked.

Jaskier choked a little, and Geralt glanced back at him for an instant. “Go to Roach, stay there. Go!”

The lad took a stumbling step backwards, and Geralt returned his attention to the rusalka, blood thrumming through his body. The water nymphs rarely put up much of a fight, even those who deliberately killed, but still not worth risking Jaskier’s life.

She smiled at him, flawlessly beguiling, and he let the tip of the sword drop down, though his grip was still firm. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to kill her, after all— it would be a shame to lose the coin, but avoiding unnecessary deaths was part of being a witcher, almost as much as causing necessary ones.

Two steps closer, and he called out a greeting in Elder. She didn’t answer, sea-green eyes watching him carefully. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said in the same tongue. “There were two men—"

At the word _men_ her face twisted, haunting beauty transforming into something furious, green flooding her alabaster skin. She surged forwards, arms raised, and a wall of water rose behind her, twice Geralt’s height.

“Fuck.”

Sword raised, he pounded across the stones towards her, but she was faster, the wave crashing down around him to carry him towards the lake as he kicked frantically, cursing the weight of his armour.

Geralt finally surfaced, the water discarding him on the stones just at the edge of the lake proper. Disoriented, he staggered to his feet, relieved to have somehow kept hold of his sword, eyes frantically searching the water for any sign of her.

There was nothing, but to his dismay Jaskier was still in sight at the edge of the woods, and between them stood the naked nymph, water roiling beneath her extended hands. As Geralt stumbled towards them, something lashed out, catching his sword arm and then his ankles.

“Jaskier!”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Jaskier, _run_!”

The bard pressed back against a tree, his face chalk white, the lute held protectively in front of him. 

Geralt roared his frustration as the impossibly strong rushes held him trapped, muscles straining against its implacable grip as the rusalka continued her relentless approach, her bare feet leaving dark footprints on the grey stones. “Leave him alone!”

Jaskier’s terrified gaze flickered from the rusalka’s face to Geralt and back again, and he lifted his chin.

“Hail, and well met, my lady.”

Gods above, this was not the time for politeness! 

The rusalka stopped three full paces clear of Jaskier, who met her eyes, straightening his back. Something peculiar settled on his face, something Geralt couldn’t quite parse, and his eyes closed.

Silence fell, save the creaking of Geralt’s tendons and ligaments against his restraints, the shifting of the stones beneath his feet, his grunting breaths.

As he watched, transfixed, tears gathered in Jaskier’s closed eyes, spilling over until the bard was weeping, unmoving. When he finally opened his eyes it was to fall to his knees, curled protectively around his lute, uncaring of his knees as he fell.

Geralt held his breath as the rusalka turned to him. Without a word the plants around his limbs receded, creeping back into the lake as Jaskier took heaving, broken breaths.

“Humans took her sisters, gangs of men, they took her sisters and they sold them and— gods, Geralt, she showed me what they did—" Jaskier’s voice cracked and he retched, half sobbing. “She showed me—" He retched again, and again, a hand pressed to his mouth, the other wrapped around his lute.

On legs that were traitorously weak, Geralt crept forward to circle around the rusalka, not letting her out of his sight as he crouched at Jaskier’s side. Her eyes were steady, not showing fear, or the fury that had met him before.

His hand on Jaskier’s back made the lad flinch, a full-body jerk.

Geralt risked looking away from the rusalka for a moment, and Jaskier clawed at him with a trembling hand, looking up with wounded eyes.

“The things they did to her sisters, Geralt...”

“Shh,” Geralt hushed him. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

The rusalka stared at them implacably, unmoving.

When Jaskier had stopped vomiting, his back heaving, he spoke again, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the stained ground before him. “She’s been... sleeping, I think. For a long time. In the ice, in the mountains. She tried to forget but she’s so angry, Geralt, so angry and so sad and so, so wounded.”

“She killed them.”

Jaskier shook his head in a futile denial, eyes pleading. “She thought... revenge, or stopping them taking her as well. I don’t know.”

With a final glance at the rusalka, Geralt put down his sword, keeping it within reach. He soothed the sweaty hair back from Jaskier’s brow and spoke half to the bard, half to the silent woman. “A long time ago, long before I was born, there were men who hunted rusalki, and dryads. They took them, sold them to nobles and brothels.”

Jaskier’s lip quivered, but he swallowed hard and kept from retching.

“Those who remained rose up and killed the men who captured their sisters. They’re dead, long dead.”

The rusalka spoke, her voice melodious and as beautiful as her body, though Geralt didn’t understand her words. Jaskier said something back, stumbling over his words. “She doesn’t understand. It’s an old dialect, very old. I can’t... I can’t explain.”

She lifted a hand, reaching out long webbed fingers towards them. A cold brush against Geralt’s mind, bringing scents of water and rushes, told him what she wanted.

Witcher training had shown him how to resist a mental invasion, the mages drilling them again and again until his mental defences were as strong as his physical ones. Where her mind whispered at the edges of his own he lowered some of those barriers, opening up the shallowest surface of his thoughts.

In an instant she was in his head, images of screaming rusalki and their forest cousins caught up in cages, men grabbing at their bodies and—

With a groan he pushed back, shoving towards her the images of the rusalki fighting back, the wood elves that had helped their dryad cousins, the men wounded and dead. Over and over, the dead bodies, the freedom, and a feeling of his own regret at the loss of her sisters. He offered a plea to stay away from men, not to drag them beneath the water to breathe their last, and his own reluctance to fight.

The pressure on his mind lifted. As she retreated, a last flurry of images flooded through his mind, accompanied by a warmth and a fresh feeling of grief.

Jaskier, caged.

Jaskier, on his knees in threadbare clothing, defiance in his eyes and blood on his lips, a steel collar around his neck.

Jaskier, naked and wounded.

It was barely a moment, a few dozen images in an instant to summarise six years, but it was more than enough.

He came back to himself with a gasp, hauling in breath through lips that curled in a snarl.

“Geralt?”

Shoving himself upright, Geralt screwed his palms into his eyes until colours burst behind his lids, but the images remained.

“I’m fine,” he growled eventually. “I showed her what happened. Told her not to drown anyone else. Pretty sure she got it.” He couldn’t tell Jaskier what he’d seen, that the story the bard had once told them had been fleshed out in awful, perfect detail.

Jaskier’s face, unblemished and plumper than those awful images had offered, brightened. “Incredible! You had a conversation?

“Of a sort.” He looked up at the rusalka, her perfect face serene. “I think she liked you.”

The rusalka spoke again, a single word. “Shan.”

“Sh... shaent?” Frowning, Jaskier fumbled for his lute to pluck pointedly at a string, and the rusalka smiled. “She wants me to play, Geralt.”

“Play what?”

Jaskier opened his mouth and then winced, eyes going distant. “Oh! She— oh. Hm. Give me a minute.”

He plucked at the strings carefully, then with more confidence, humming a little before beginning to sing.

_Sisters of the sea, sisters of the lakes and rivers  
_ _Sisters of the forest and the land..._

Above Jaskier’s familiar well trained, if roughened, tone and the clever notes from his lute came a woman’s voice, high and clear, singing words that could be elder or could be something else entirely. As the haunting voices twined together, the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck rose.

At the final strum of the lute the rusalka trailed a hand down Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier’s lips parted in surprise and he blinked slowly, lazily. Geralt’s heart leapt, ice streaking through his flesh, but that was apparently her last act. She offered him a polite nod and a final musical word, and turned back to the lake, the water reaching out to her like a loyal pet and closing around her without a ripple.

“Well,” Jaskier said distantly. “That was an experience.”

“Hm.”

The walk back to Roach was a subdued affair. Geralt offered his waterskin, and Jaskier seized it gratefully, rinsing his mouth and spitting into the bushes. He still looked pale, and Geralt kept a hand near his elbow in case wobbly legs pitched him to the ground.

Roach wasn’t far; Jaskier slumped gratefully against her, and she stood obligingly steady as he scratched short nails through her coat, soothing himself with her steady presence.

“Think you can ride?”

Shoulders heavy with weariness Jaskier nodded, and Geralt gave him a leg up. His own muscles were protesting from the strain of fighting against his bonds, but he was far from exhausted, and if necessary could spend another day on his feet before needing a rest.

They walked back to town in silence, both distracted by their thoughts, Jaskier sagging in the saddle as Geralt kept a hand on the reins.

“She was sorry,” he rasped eventually. “For what happened to me. She... she showed me what happened to her and then I could feel her looking at my memories, and then... it was like there was a blanket around my shoulders, this peculiar warmth. And I could feel she was sorry.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say about that, and certainly didn’t want to let him know what he’d seen in that brief meeting of minds, so just hummed noncommittally.

By the time they reached town the spring day had turned into a spectacular sunset, crimson spilling across the sky. Much to their relief the gathering gloom meant far less attention from townspeople, and they made it to the tavern without incident. The stablehand took Roach, and a crown for his troubles, with a promise to give her only the finest oats. The boy seemed less scared than most, but stableboys — as Geralt well knew — were wont to be less fearful of witchers than many, more concerned with horses than humans.

By unspoken agreement the two headed upstairs, not wanting to wait around downstairs in the pregnant silence for another hour until supper was to be served. As soon as the door closed, Geralt reached for Jaskier, pulling him into a hug, breathing in his scent. “I was so fucking scared for you.”

Jasker buried his face in Geralt’s armoured shoulder, rubbing against him much like Geralt had seen cats do. “I’m sorry.”

He wanted to shout, wanted to shake Jaskier and make him promise never to follow him on a hunt again, wanted to drown out the awful images — the rusalka’s history, and Jaskier’s own torment — with anger and a raised voice, but the fear of seeing him helpless and weeping still had a grip around his heart.

After a while, Jaskier mumbled something into his shoulder, a fresh tension threading through his frame.

“Hm?”

Jaskier shifted just enough to lift his mouth from Geralt’s armour, which surely couldn’t be comfortable. “Did you mean it?” he whispered. “That you shouldn’t have let me travel with you.”

Geralt’s heart lurched, guilt and fear and shame, and he pulled away to capture Jaskier’s face between scarred hands, staring firmly into worried blue eyes. “No.” A plump lip caught in white teeth told him that wasn’t enough, and digging through his instinctive reaction he managed to drag out more words. “I was scared, and angry.” 

He had meant it, just a little; had meant that he hadn’t wanted Jaskier to be at risk, that it wasn’t safe to travel with a reviled mutant. But the rusalka’s gift had reinforced for him that Jaskier needed protection, needed someone to stop his own foolishness, or other men's cruelty, from causing trouble. At least at Geralt’s side the witcher could keep an eye on him, for as long as the bard would put up with nights on the road and days fighting monsters.

He sighed, and kissed Jaskier’s cheek, lingering on the softness of his skin.

With a hum, Jaskier turned to catch his lips with his own. “Can we lie down?” He added hastily, “Not... for anything. I just...”

It was easy to sling an arm over the narrow waist, bury his nose in dark hair, and lose himself in Jaskier, the scent and sound and feel of him, the living thrum of him, the memory of the haunting duet with the rusalka still echoing in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific note: Jaskier speaks very negatively about his lack of interest in sex.

They woke long after dark, Geralt’s nose twitching at the scent of food drifting from downstairs. Stretching, his muscles protested a little, spine clicking, and Jaskier mumbled something into the pillow.

“C’mon, bard.”

“Hn... nuh.”

Geralt snorted. Giving Jaskier a minute to stir himself, he stripped off his armour — far more uncomfortable to sleep in than it was to wear in battle — and quickly washed up, removing the last vestiges of lake water from his skin.

By the time he was clean Jaskier had managed to stand, yawning and stretching. “Gods, I’m starving.”

“Hard work sneaking around after a witcher.” He offered a half grin.

Jaskier snorted and slapped at his arm. “Stop it.”

The bard washed up too, chewing on a handful of mint as Geralt tidied away his weapons, counting out his potions and stashing them away, well out of the way of any prying maids who might chance a look while the inhabitants were out. He was well supplied; Lambert had done his usual job of restocking all of their potions over winter, at least those that would last a while.

The tavern was busier than it had been when they first arrived, the silence faster to spread but faster to ebb, townfolk returning to their meals and ale. They settled in a corner, Geralt with his back to the wall. Jaskier didn’t seem to notice the deliberate positioning, though he did shuffle his chair around to get a half decent view of the room.

“So. The rusalka.”

“Hm.”

“You didn’t kill her.”

“No.”

“Even though she killed two men.”

Geralt shrugged. "Not all monsters need killing. I’ll pass through here again. If she’s gone back on her word, I’ll be better prepared.” A half dozen potions in him, for starters, to fight a creature of her rare strength, and a new moon too. It had been an inauspicious start to the season, and Vesemir would be embarrassed to see how easily his student had so nearly been bested. Eskel would probably laugh in his face.

He added, as an afterthought, “Was it what you expected? Watching a hunt.”

“Not at all.” Jaskier ducked his head, then glanced up with a smile. “And yet, you were exactly what I expected.”

The naked admiration in his face brought warmth to Geralt’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat, sitting back against the unyielding chill of the stone wall and letting his gaze roam the room in the practised way of witchers, taking the measure of each person present.

Jaskier had brought his notepad; as Geralt half meditated the bard scribbled frantically, his handwriting the meticulous script of a noble despite his speed. After giving himself the start of a headache Geralt gave up on trying to read it upside down, instead just focusing on appearing as inconspicuous as possible. 

Dinner arrived, left at their table by a sour faced woman who paid no more attention to them than to any other patron. Still too early in the year for much variety, the soup was sweet and earthy, rich red beetroot turned pink with cream, thick with potatoes and carrots from the winter stores and sopped up with a chunk of fresh bread. 

“'s good,” Jaskier said between mouthfuls. "Not as good as Vesemir’s cooking, and his hothouse vegetables, but better than rabbit."

“Vesemir spoils us.”

“No more than you deserve.” 

He grunted, and focussed on his food. Jaskier might compliment him with pretty words, but surely the bard must understand how close they had been to death? Only the rusalka’s whims had kept them from a miserable watery grave.

The guilt bit at his belly. He should have known the lad would follow him, recklessly curious man that he was. After all, who but a reckless man would ask to travel with a witcher? He should have made allowances for that. Jaskier’s death would have been laid squarely at his door.

That thought turned the food to dust in his mouth, but every witcher knew better than to leave food when it was offered. He chewed and swallowed mechanically until the bowl was empty, relieved that at least Jaskier’s appetite seemingly hadn’t been impacted by the near death experience. The bard still needed to build up strength, after all. Swordwork and good food for a couple of months could only go so far to counter six years of neglect.

Empty plates whisked away, Jaskier returned to his notebook, humming under his breath, but his attention didn’t last long. “I think I need my lute, I can’t quite capture the tune.”

Without a word, Geralt slid from his bench, heading upstairs.

“Oh. Um, okay.” Jaskier trailed after him.

The silence rolled out once again. In the silence a man’s low voice whispered, “Must be a cheap whore, for a witcher to have him.”

He hoped, for a moment, that Jaskier hadn’t heard, but the bard’s foot stumbled on the old wooden stairs, falling heavily on the next step, and when Geralt glanced back at him his head was hung low, mouth downturned and miserable.

“Don’t,” he said tightly. “Please don’t.”

Geralt forced his face to impassivity and continued up the stairs. 

Seaweed misery followed him inside their room, and Jaskier retreated to the bed.

“Jaskier...” He didn’t know what came next, just that he had to say something.

“I couldn’t even be a good whore,” Jaskier whispered. “I’ve not touched you since we left Kaer Morhen, and I didn’t let you fuck me even before that. I want to, I just... can’t.”

“....what?”

His voice was bitter as he thumbed anxiously across his fingertips. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, Geralt, we both know you’re not that stupid.”

“You think you’re with me just to warm my bed?” 

He could hear the disbelief in his voice, and Jaskier had the decency to look shamefaced, gaze fixed on the floor. “Not... not just that. But you wouldn’t have brought me, otherwise. I’m not exactly bringing in coin.”

Geralt knelt before Jaskier on trembling legs, catching that distressed gaze. “Jaskier. I swear, if you never brought in a copper bit, if I never touched you again, you would still be a welcome companion.”

A fat tear formed, swelled, and fell, staining the floorboards between them.

Tentatively he reached out to Jaskier’s fidgeting hands, catching the long fingers and turning them to kiss his knuckles as they swelled pale against the thin skin. “You came to my bed, but you also stood by my side, knowing who I was, and wanting me all the same, with no fear or fetish or scheme. Do you have any idea how many humans have done that?” Even Renfri had had her own reasons, however innocent their coupling had seemed at the time; he'd had few enough conversations with humans before Blaviken, and certainly no one who'd heard of the Butcher stayed around him for long.

Jaskier made a half muted sound, shaking his head as his lip trembled.

“None. Not one. Your trust is worth more to me than a tumble.”

More tears fell, and Jaskier slid off the bed and into his waiting arms. “Stupid articulate witcher,” he sobbed out, and Geralt laughed as he held him close, relief making him giddy.

When juddering sobs had turned to heavy breaths, Geralt eased back, and Jaskier lifted up his chemise to mop tears from his cheeks. “Ugh. Sorry. Apparently I wasn’t prepared for you to be all _noble_ and _nice_.”

Geralt stroked his cheek, very gently, then turned away, giving both of them a little more space. "Get your lute, bard."

"Right. Yes, of course." Clearing his throat, Jaskier did as he was told, sniffing wetly as he juggled notebook and quill and lute, while Geralt settled in front of the fireplace to meditate as best he could with half formed music happening in his ear.

Hours later, when meditation had turned into a light doze, the crack-hiss of wood breaking apart in the fireplace drew him up from the depths. After stretching muscles that had started to ache from the day’s work he padded over to their belongings, tugging out his bedroll to settle it in front of the meagre fire.

Jaskier lifted his head, squinting a little after spending too long staring at his handwriting in the dim candlelight. “What are you doing?”

“Bed,” he grunted, chancing a glance at the bard as he stripped off his leather breeches, standing barefoot in his shorts.

“Yes, but why are you doing it there?”

Geralt folded the breeches neatly. “You only got one bed because you thought I was going to expect to fuck. That's not happening. I'll take the floor."

“No, we got one bed because it’s cheaper." Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, and Jaskier had the decency to blush. "Okay, yes, a little because I thought you might want... that. But there’s no need for you to take the floor, we can still share. Maybe cuddle.”

The evidence of tears had long gone, replaced with a nervous determination, and Geralt already knew himself a weak man.

He surrendered, and Jaskier’s face cleared, just a little.

The sheets were thin and scratchy on the straw, the bed decently wide for two humans but small for a human and a witcher. Geralt tried his best to squeeze to the side of the bed, on his side to minimise his bulk as best he could as he waited for Jaskier to strip down to his underthings, shorts and the salt-streaked chemise. They might have curled up together after the hunt, but that had been exhaustion, and they’d been fully dressed; it didn’t seem right to lie close to the bard when only hours before he had thought he’d be paying for his bed with sex.

Jaskier had to clamber on to the bed from the foot, Geralt having taken the side closest the door. The silver-handled dagger went under the pillow, matched by Geralt's own steel sword on the floor within reach, and the bard curled on his side with a contented sigh, squirming a little to get beneath the blankets.

There were a good few inches between them, Jaskier's back to Geralt's chest, and as Geralt pinched out the stub of candle the room felt very silent, both of them far too aware of their breaths. After a long moment, Jaskier’s hand moved beneath the blanket, lifting the sheet enough to let in a draught before settling at his waist, fingers pulling with gentle insistence.

Geralt didn’t move, and Jaskier tugged him more firmly.

The last glimmer of light from the banked fire caught Jaskier’s eyes as he turned his head, bright in the gloom, and the silent plea broke the last of Geralt’s restraint. It was easy to close the gap between them, flatten himself against Jaskier’s back, tuck his jaw into the sweet curve of neck where once a collar had unhappily rested. Jaskier’s scent, familiar and comforting, washed through him like the first plunge into the springs on a snowy day, and muscles he hadn’t realised were tense relaxed into submission. 

Jaskier hummed happily and tugged his arm around his chest, as tight as they’d been after the hunt but with only Jaskier’s thin chemise and their shorts between them, rather than armour, and it made all the difference in the world.

*-*-*-*-*

Leagues away, three witchers bedded down for the night. Another handful of days and they would be in Redania, and then Lettenhove; spirits were high, the melancholy that came with parting replaced with the glee of horse racing and sparring on unfamiliar ground, not the stone of the training room.

With spring filling the land with fresh growth, creatures were taking advantage of the change of season. Lambert had delighted in pointing out amorous squirrels— and birds, and toads, and on one occasion a pair of beaver, which had led to hours of increasingly crude jokes until Vesemir had finally snapped and threatened to cut out his tongue and the young witcher had subsided. Eskel’s threats hadn’t been so effective, and he'd suffered from muttered puns and filth long after it had ceased to be amusing.

"I don't know how Aiden puts up with you," he hissed venomously.

"It's 'cause I'm so pretty," Lambert had blithely assured him, before pointing out a pair of collared doves going at it half a mile down the road. Their cooing echoed in witcher ears for a good while before they were close enough for Eskel to take a potshot with a sling, knocking one from the branch as Lambert looked at him reproachfully.

They awoke at sunrise, or at least Eskel and Vesemir did, which gave the former a few minutes to creep away. The trap set the night before had been sprung, and he suppressed his laughter as he carried his prize back to the camp. Vesemir pretended not to see, though there was amused judgement in his eyes as he focussed on his own tasks, and he deliberately kept his movements witcher-silent.

A corner of a bedroll lifted, and Eskel backed away, scarred face mischievous. There was a moment of silence and then a shriek split the morning air. Blankets were flung across the clearing accompanied by a bemused squirrel, which hit the ground and took off running as Lambert, wide eyed and thrashing, stumbled from his bedroll.

Even Vesemir couldn’t help his snort as Eskel doubled over in paroxysms of laughter, watching Lambert flap wildly at his clothes before snarling and wheeling on his brother.

“You fucker,” he growled furiously, and the morning started with blood drawn, though not much, and the observations ceased.

*-*-*-*-*

The alderman was unimpressed with Geralt’s claim that the creature in the lake had been dealt with.

“No proof, no payment.”

A common enough mantra, the reason Geralt usually brought corpses — or at least a head — back from a hunt. Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but the slightest shift of Geralt’s hand silenced him.

He did share a rumour of a nobleman having problems with an unspeakable spider-like beast, which was promising, but Geralt couldn’t find it in himself to thank him. At least it meant they would be able to avoid Ard Carraigh; cities weren’t his idea of a good time. Towns were little better, and the prospect of either was worse now he had to watch Jaskier’s back as well as his own.

As they left Glean Carraigh Jaskier was brighter than he had been, commenting on the snowdrops cheerfully bobbing by the side of the road, whistling along to the birdsong in the trees. Geralt kept his attention fixed on their surroundings, tuning out the bard and his persistent noisemaking.

Some miles down the road the strumming of the lute broke him from his reverie, and his attention was caught just in time to hear Jaskier sing a couple of lines to a familiar tune.

“She spoke in an ancient tongue, of sorrow on her rocky shores; the lady of the lake stood tall, her heart was frozen but her hand was sure.” Jaskier trailed off into nothing, glancing over with calculated nonchalance.

"That was about yesterday?"

Nonchalance turned to delight. "Of course! The lady of the lake, what do you think?"

“You changed the words.”

“Ah, my dear witcher, I have merely embellished!” Jaskier’s gleeful grin faded, and he glanced down. “The original was beautiful, but it hardly seems right to perform it for a baying crowd who wouldn’t appreciate it, nor the history behind it. Perhaps to academics, or to you witchers, but not in a tavern.”

“Hm.” It made sense, he supposed, though it hardly seemed right to discard a song that had been all but lost more than a century ago.

They walked in silence for a little while before Jaskier hastened his steps to walk at his side.

A hand on his arm made him turn, and Jaskier’s earnest face gazed up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ve written down every bit of it, everything she put in my head, the common tongue she gave me and the elder I remember. I’ll work with scholars at Oxenfurt to get it perfect. That history is important. Her music, her memories won’t be lost, Geralt. I swear it.”

A strange ache grew in his throat, and he swallowed against the burn. Jaskier’s care for a woman he hardly knew, his reverence for her history— the thought of him applying that same dedication to witchers was almost overwhelming. No one else had ever cared about hearing the truth, about preserving a millennia of their Path that now rested on the shoulders of just a final few handful of witchers.

“Oh,” he said, and his voice cracked. Jaskier’s fingers slipped from his sleeve, the bard curling his hand close to his chest, eyes wide.

“Geralt,” he heard, quiet and helpless, and he shook his head, tugging Roach on with his gaze fixed on the muddy ground churned up by hooves and carriages. He had an awful feeling that if he opened his mouth, something might tumble out and he’d be powerless to stop it.

Jaskier trotted to catch him up, striding alongside without a word. His pitter-patter human heart was racing, more than Geralt might have expected even given their pace and the bootsucking mud, and he slowed a little in deference.

Once his throat had ceased its peculiar pain he turned his senses back on the man beside him. His pulse had settled, but there was a tremble in his limbs. Clearly he wouldn’t ask for a rest, so after clearing his throat to avoid it betraying him, Geralt glanced over. “Want to ride Roach for a bit?”

He didn’t get an answer, Jaskier just staring at the road ahead as he walked, fingers wrapped white around the improvised leather strap of his lute.

“Jaskier?”

Still the same steady pace, one foot in front of the other, and the peculiar silence fed his growing sense of unease. Catching Jaskier's free hand, he pulled the bard to a halt. “Hey. Jaskier.”

The familiar bright blue gaze was unfocussed, drifting slowly across the landscape before finally reaching Geralt’s face, settling somewhere over his temple.

He cupped his hand against Jaskier’s jaw, curling around the stubbled skin, stroking a rough thumb over the soft blade of his cheekbone. Jaskier blinked, slow and lazy, and after a moment seemed to come back to life with a shudder. “Geralt?”

He kept his voice low, soothing. “Where did you go, little fox?”

“I... sorry. Just walking.” Jaskier blinked. “Daydreaming.”

It hadn’t looked like just walking. “Hm.” He stepped back as Jaskier offered him a tentative, flickering smile. “Ride Roach for a bit.”

“Alright.”

Geralt gave him a leg up, a hand splayed across his thigh to make sure he didn’t tip off, though the lad seemed steady enough now he’d stopped his woolgathering.

They plodded on.


End file.
